


Untitled Homeless Piece

by brainofck



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Drug Use, Homelessness, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brainofck/pseuds/brainofck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is a homeless, heroin-addicted vet.  No car picked Daniel Jackson up after his presentation in LA.  A homeless AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Homeless Piece

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was always going to be a stretch for me, but I struggled with it, and then I fell into Avengers fandom. Rather than leave this on my hard drive unfinished forever, I thought I'd stick it on AO3 to be unfinished forever. I ran the spell checker, but honestly, I only have the vaguest recollection of what I had written for this or where I left it back in February, and I'm pretty sure it's a big mess, but I hope it will be interesting to some people. Beware IT IS INCOMPLETE AND ABANDONDED, so. I think it stopped in an OK spot, if I recall correctly.

The guy came up and stood beside him, calm in the pouring rain.

"So what's going on?" he asked, in a friendly way. "You know you're stuff's getting wet, right?"

"Yeah," Daniel replied, feeling dazed. Like the rain was a curtain separating him from reality. He turned his head to look at the man next to him. Tramp. Street person. Bum. Homeless man.

That was what Daniel was, now. A homeless street person with a couple of ratty suitcases, standing in the rain because he had nowhere else to go.

Dr. Jordan tried to tell him. "You have to apply for grants, Daniel. You have to meet the deadlines – propose research in an organized way. If you want to get paid, you have to be a professional. And you need a tenure track position. You're not rich enough to be an amateur archaeologist, funding all you research with your own money."

"Come on, let's get out of this rain," the guy said, taking him by the elbow and beginning a leisurely stroll down the sidewalk.

They were not the first to arrive. A group of men loitered under the eaves of Our Mother of Mercy Outreach, Kitchen and Shelter, driven there by the unusual Los Angeles downpour. His escort melted into the crowd, leaving him alone. There was an air of waiting in the group. The enticing smell of chicken and rice explained.

The door opened, and Daniel let himself be pulled forward with the group. 

He hadn't had breakfast, after all.

"What's in the suitcases, buddy?" The man jostled him. His clothes were fetid and his breath was heavy with low-grade vodka.

"Just some books," Daniel said. The most important things in his life. All he had left. A ridiculous burden for a man in line at a soup kitchen. A heavy weight for a nomad.

"Really?! Let's see!" the man persisted, pushing Daniel, reaching for one of the cases where he had set it on the floor as he accepted his plate.

"Hey. Marky Mark. No shoving. And no hassling the other diners." Daniel looked around in surprise. A man three people back in the line was leaving his place, walking forward. Tall, very thin, but not quite emaciated, with salt and pepper hair and tracks on his bare arms. Marky Mark turned to face him. He turned to face him, and he seemed a little spooked, adopting a sneer to cover his obvious fear.

"Nobody cares what you say, Sarge. The professor and I are just having a conversation."

"Well, your girlfriend back there is missing you. She wants us to switch places," Sarge said. Daniel could see a broken down woman back down the line, staring vacantly into space. The line moved and the man behind her gave her a nudge. She shuffled forward.

"Nancy don't want nothin'," Marky Mark replied sharply. "And I don't take orders from a faggot who would drop and suck my dick for five bucks."

Nothing about the other man's posture or expression changed, as best Daniel could determine, but Marky Mark suddenly paled and stepped back, as if he had seen a threat or expected a blow.

"That's pretty big talk from a guy who can't afford a five dollar blow job," Sarge said pleasantly.

"Fine, I'll go help Nancy. Give you more space to make a move on the Professor, here," Marky Mark said.

"Good idea, Robert," said a new voice. Daniel thought he heard a chuckle in the approving statement. He realized that Robert's reaction had not been to Sarge at all, but to the man approaching them from the other side of the room, a young, friendly priest, wearing his collar with a short-sleeved white shirt and no jacket. 

"Father Mac," Robert says, and scurries back to stand where Sarge had been, in line in front of Nancy, who had to be nudged back a little to let him in.

"Jason MacDermott," said the priest, offering Daniel his hand. "Welcome!" he says enthusiastically. He handshake is warm and firm. "I see Sarge is looking after you." He sounded approving.

"I'm Daniel Jackson," Daniel managed to reply in return, feeling a little uncomfortable admitting his own name in his new circumstances. "Someone rescued me from the rain."

The priest nodded, and moved with them as the line progressed. "Rain in Los Angeles. Makes me smile," the priest said. "But not so great if you don't have a plan for tonight. Are you going to need a place?" he asked. He was watching Daniel closely. Daniel was drenched, but he could tell he was in a lot better shape than anyone else in this line.

"I'll look after him, Father Mac," Sarge intervened quickly. This got a raised eyebrow from the priest.

"Excellent," Father Mac said. "You'll be in good hands, Mr. Jackson. You will never meet a man more honest than Sarge here, and even I have to say that this place really is a place of last resort." As he spoke, his eyes passed over the room, and his attention was suddenly focused elsewhere. "Sarge," he said, even as he was moving away. "Be sure to bring Mr. Jackson back here to talk to me in the morning. I want to learn more about the books in those cases." 

"Will do," Sarge replied to the priest's retreating back. He nudged Daniel, picking up reaching out to take one of the suitcases. Daniel was reluctant to give it up, but it was his turn in the line and he wasn't going to be able to manage them both and a tray.

After Father Mac's warm approval and endorsement, Daniel expected Sarge to be a popular guy in the place. But the women volunteering in the kitchen didn't seem particularly interested in his escort – there were no warm welcomes or familiar jokes or extra helpings with admonishments that he was too thin. The two of them received their dinners just like everyone else in the line. Nancy and her helper Robert got more attentive treatment as the passed through.

In the dining room it was the same. Sarge went to the long table farthest from the serving line, and sat alone, and no one intruded on his personal space. Daniel sat across from him. Sarge seemed focused on eating, and uninterested in making conversation. He didn't bolt his food, as many of the other people in the room were doing, but to Daniel's anthropologists eye, he was clearly intent on getting the food in hand into his stomach before someone took it from him. Of course, Sarge probably didn't consciously now he was doing it – but then again, maybe he did. He was nearly done before Daniel actually took his first bite.

"Not hungry yet, then," Sarge surmised, eying Daniel's nearly full plate. Daniel guiltily made to off the other man some. He didn't really belong here, eating food that these people needed. Sarge shook his head, waving Daniel off. 

"You have to eat, just like the rest of us. Start giving away your stuff in this place and you'll regret it."

So Daniel nodded and started to eat in earnest. He _was_ hungry, after all. 

People were watching him, he realized. And Sarge was watching them back, not warily exactly - more of a constant readiness, that seemed in conflict with the fact that he was clearly using. 

He rose as soon as Daniel was finished, as if he didn't want to stay in the room one second longer than he had to.

"You ready?" he asked. "Father Mac wants you to come back in the morning. I'm sure he'd watch your books for you overnight."

The thought of leaving the books went like a rock to Daniel's gut. It was stupid. They would probably be safer with the priest than with him, if he was being realistic. But the idea of having the last remnants of his real life separated from him filled him with dread.

"I'd rather hold on to them," Daniel said, trying to sound casual and not as panicked as he suddenly felt.

Sarge nodded. 

"Let's go," he said. Daniel hesitated. He looked around again. It said a lot that Sarge looked like the sanest and healthiest of the people in the room. Daniel certainly found the idea of sleeping a few beds down from Robert very unsettling. On the other hand, Daniel had no idea who this Sarge person was, either. Was he just going to walk out onto the streets of a strange city in the darkening gloom and hope the guy would somehow keep him safe or protect him, or what did Daniel expect?

Across the room, Father Mac caught his eye. He smiled and nodded reassuringly, and made shooing gestures, as if telling Daniel to be on his way. Sarge was already half way across the room, carrying their trays to a window by the kitchen, not looking back. Daniel took a deep breath, picked up his bags and followed.

"KP for both of you tomorrow," Father Mac was saying to Sarge's already retreating back. The man was nodding as he walked away.

Daniel caught up and matched pace with him on the sidewalk outside.

After a few minutes of strolling, he asked, "Where are we going?"

"My place," Sarge replied. He walked with a long stride that suggested he could walk and walk and maybe never get tired. He was a little taller than Daniel, and not carrying two cases full of books. Daniel had to work to keep up.

"Oh. Uh. I assumed," Daniel said stupidly.

"Do I look like a guy who lives in a box under a bridge to you?" Sarge asked, turning with a bounce in his step, extending his arms, as if to display his full potential self to Daniel. 

"Far too clean," Sarge informed him, with a twinkle in his eye. He returned to walking forward, with his long strides. "However, you are not far from wrong. It's not the Hilton," he confided.

"Is it far?" Daniel asked, after another few minutes of quiet walking. He blamed his education for all the questions, then had to stifle a slightly hysterical giggle at his own joke.

"Sadly, yes. Well, it will be, the way we're getting there. And I apologize in advance, I anticipate there will be a few stops on the way. Also, it is never a bad idea to be sure you know your way back. You know. In case I sleep in tomorrow." Sarge flexed his arm. 

"Would it be rude to ask what the anticipated stops might be?" Daniel asked. 

"Not so much rude, as ill-advised," Sarge replied. "Los Angeles after the rain. Fantastic night for a walk," he took a deep breath of moist air. 

Daniel took a tentative sniff and wasn't as ecstatic. Not exactly the desert air after a cloudburst.

They walked a little farther.

"I'm surprised they call you Sarge," he commented. 

Sarge shrugged. "I have a coat from a surplus store. People of uncertain mental faculties assumed."

"I would have gone with General," said Daniel. 

Sarge snorted. 

"Thanks for the promotion," he said.

"You have that air of command,' Daniel said.

"A Sergeant gives plenty of commands," Sarge replied.

"Yes, but you don't appear to have any deference to authority. You appear to respect Father Mac, but you don't respond to him as a person with power over you. I would expect a Sergeant to have a different response."

"I hear those non-coms in OTC don't have much deference to authority," Sarge said with a chuckle.

"Ah. An academy graduate, then," Daniel surmised.

Sarge turned a raised eyebrow on him.

"Well, well. I'll have to check six with you around. You still gave me a promotion though. Also, which service? And what was my degree?" he asked the last question with special emphasis. "I bet you get it wrong."

"History of Dance," Daniel said tartly, but inordinately pleased that he had apparently guessed right.

"We'll see," said Sarge. They were a good mile from the shelter by now, though they had taken a circuitous route. Sarge had been glancing back over his shoulder regularly. 

"Who's following us?" Daniel asked.

"Nobody," Sarge said, eyes forward again. A half-smile quirked his lips. "And now to see how I dance," he said. "I expect one of our stops on this block. When I go around the corner, wait ten seconds, then follow me. If I go in somewhere, just walk down, cross the street, and wait at the bus stop. I'll be there in a few minutes." He turned to walk away, then turned back. "If it gets to be half an hour, head back to the shelter and let Father Mac look after you."

"Okay," Daniel said, drawing out the syllables. His mind was running scenarios as Sarge went around the corner. Was he buying drugs? Selling them? He carried a beaten up pack, probably from the same surplus store he got his coat from. Maybe he was going to knock over a liquor store, his overheating brain suggested. He waited the ten seconds, then went around the corner. Sarge was already halfway down the block, and was deep in conversation with a man much too well-dressed for the neighborhood. Then he took Sarge by the elbow and they faded into the doorway of a rundown townhouse. Daniel walked steadily forward. As he passed the doorway he saw that the two men had not gone into the building. Sarge was crammed into the vestibule, his back in the corner, pants around his ankles, the well-dressed man kneeling in front of him. They were barely visible in the darkness. Daniel himself might have walked right past them, if he hadn't been trying to see where Sarge went.

Without realizing it, he had stopped and was staring in mild confusion. Sarge met his gaze with a hard-eyed glare that had Daniel shaking his head and turning to keep moving toward the bus stop. 

He very nearly collided with a police officer, walking slowly by on the street.

"Something wrong, sir?" the officer asked. Obviously he had noticed Daniel noticing the two men in the dark. Daniel blinked rapidly at the policeman and then tried to smile.

"Um, yes, actually," Daniel stammered, trying to think fast. He didn't particularly want to deal with Sarge getting arrested after everything else that had happened already that day. "Uh, I was just realizing how very, very lost I am."

The officer took in Daniel's slacks and shoes and tweed. It was all a little run down, but it certainly stood out in the neighborhood.

"What address are you trying to find?" he asked. When Daniel rattled off the address of the hotel where he had given his lecture that morning, the officer shook his head.

"You should call a cab," he said. "You are half-way across town from there."

Daniel shrugged with a self deprecating smile.

"I'm on a grad student's budget. I'm afraid all I can work in is bus fare."

The officer nodded. "Well, I'm no expert on bus routes. I think the bus you need picks up two streets down that way. The nearest stop is down a block to the east. I just walked past the bench. The maps on the glass are in very good shape. I think you will need to transfer at least twice…" Daniel was distracted from the police officer's explanation when he noticed the man walking past and away from him. He brushed against Daniel's arm, as if he wanted the officer to notice him. The policeman barely glanced in his direction. Well dressed, a little disheveled – Daniel was ninety percent certain it was the man he had seen speaking to Sarge.

Daniel noticed the policeman had stopped talking and was watching him closely.

"Are you certain you're alright, sir?" the officer asked.

"Yes, sorry. It's just been a very long day. My flight left Chicago at 6am," Daniel said. "Thank you for your help. I'll be sure to talk to the bus driver, like you said." He took a better grip on his suitcases, and began walking down the street, following the officer's instructions for the correct bus stop. When he came to the intersection two blocks down where he needed to cross, he looked back and was relieved to see that the policeman had continued his beat and was walking away from him, about two blocks down from where they had met, and Sarge had nearly caught up to him. They crossed the street together, then walked the entire block, where Sarge chose yet another direction, and they were meandering back towards what Daniel thought was their original route.

"Thanks," Sarge said, after another block. "There was no need for you to do that."

Daniel shrugged.

"The guy's a real closet case," Sarge continued. "Pays to suck me off because he doesn't want anyone to know he's," here Sarge paused to make a hand gesture that Daniel presumed was supposed to indicate _homosexual_ , "but he always wants to do it where people could see him, alleys and doorways. I think he wants the world to find out about him in a way that isn't his 'fault' in his own mind. Well, fuck him, he's not going to be the first guy who gets me arrested for hustling." Sarge had trailed off during his tirade, muttering to himself by the end. Daniel didn't comment.

"But!" Sarge announced suddenly. "Thanks to you, I got paid double. I think the guy came in his pants around the time you told the cop, yes, you were alright, it had just been a long day." Sarge chuckled. "Time to head home."

Sarge seemed to be checking behind them less. Daniel assumed he was satisfied that they were not being followed. They had been walking in a circle, Daniel realized. When they left Our Mother of Mercy, they had gone almost due west, back towards the Park Plaza, where Daniel had given his lecture. Now they had turned north and every new turn at a street corner took them more west. Sarge was striding along with more purpose, too, no longer out for an evening stroll. The sidewalks had a reasonable amount of traffic, but nobody bothered them, though Daniel drew more than a few surprised glances.

As they travelled west, Daniel noticed that the pedestrian traffic got lighter, until the only people left on the sidewalk were himself and Sarge and people participating in illegal economic activities. He noted their route had become more southerly. They were making a wide circle, Daniel believed. Sarge continued walking, unconcerned, so Daniel trailed along behind him, trying not to seem nervous.

Until Sarge said, "Shit," and crossed the street and rounded the next corner in what seemed to Daniel like a sudden detour.

"Evenin' Sarge," said a man who seemed to appear from nowhere. "Need anything?"

The man was obviously a drug dealer. Daniel wondered if Sarge was going to spend the money he had just earned a few blocks ago.

"Just passing through, Kaz," Sarge replied tightly.

"Really? Too bad. You could have earned the cash right back," Kaz replied, holding his crotch suggestively, but looking straight at Daniel. "What about your boyfriend? He's sweet. Got a little meat on him, too."

"He's not interested," Sarge said, putting himself firmly between Daniel and Kaz.

"First time, huh? I'll pay him what I pay you, plus a nice tip if he's tight."

"Do I look like a pimp?" Sarge growled. 

"If you're not his pimp, then you don't speak for him, do you?" Kaz said, and somehow he had gotten around Sarge and was catching Daniel by the arm.

Sarge moved so fast, Daniel almost squeaked in surprise. He had Kaz tight by the collar and was moving the bulky man back from Daniel, pushing him away, and stopping just sort of slamming him into the nearest wall. He set him on his feet.

"For that, the next time you want to fuck me, it's gonna be three times as much. Hands. Off."

Daniel swallowed hard and stared around the block. Kaz had body guards, and they were all armed. But they were holding back. Daniel was confused. He thought they looked afraid. 

Kaz was afraid, too. It didn't make any sense to Daniel.

"I've got whores lined up, Sarge. Why would I pay you?" Kaz said defiantly.

Sarge stepped back and walked away. Daniel hurried after him.

"You know, a junkie needs to buy from somebody," Kaz sneered after him. Sarge didn't look back.

"I'll have you on your knees right there tomorrow," Kaz called. In spite of himself, Daniel turned to see him pointing toward the dumpsters at the end of an alley. 

"Bring cash," Sarge replied. He led Daniel right by one of the guards. Daniel turned a few times as they continued on, but none of the men came after them.

Two blocks south, one block west, and Sarge said, "Okay, time to get home. Sorry, but we're going the back way. Follow me and try to keep quiet." He reached over and took the suitcase, leaving Daniel to carry only the shoulder bag. Then he led Daniel into an alley.

They went behind dumpsters, over fences, down very dark alleys, and even through a couple of abandoned buildings. Daniel startled a few people sheltering in dark corners, but Sarge moved so silently, Daniel was confident that none of those people would have been the slightest bit disturbed if Sarge had been alone.

They travelled this way for about half an hour, delayed by obstacles and darkness, but now going almost directly south, Daniel was certain. Finally, in the middle of a completely unlit alley, Sarge stopped and started feeling along the bottom of a boarded up window. To Daniel's surprise, he lifted up the window boards, and Daniel realized the "boards" were actually a hinged shutter. He ducked inside as Sarge held the shutter open, then followed behind him. 

The building was utterly dark. Daniel couldn't see anything, even with his eyes already dark-adapted. 

"Don't make a sound," Sarge breathed into his ear. Then Sarge fumbled down Daniel's body, taking his hand and placing it on his own shoulder. Daniel got the idea, and held on to Sarge's shirt as his new friend made his way into the pitch black space.

He knew exactly where he was going. He didn't hesitate, and he never stumbled. At one point he stopped. 

"Step down," he said, directly into Daniel's ear again. 

Sarge opened a door. He reached around and caught Daniel's free hand and placed it on a railing. They went up what Daniel thought were ten half-flights of stairs. Five floors. A relatively tall building for the surrounding few blocks. Sarge took a door out of the stairwell. When he stopped, Daniel heard the distinctive sound of a key in a lock.

The room had windows and after the darkness, the glow of streetlamps shining in was enough for Daniel to see the entire room in detail. Sarge was walking over to the corner where there was a row of cinderblocks lined up together. He reached inside the blocks and pulled out a single votive candle, that he set in the middle of the middle block and lit.

The room was relatively large and almost completely empty. Broad windows were set at about head-height, equally dividing the wall across from the door. There was a mattress on the floor next to the cinderblocks, and a second mattress propped against the wall under the windows. Sarge was flipping the second mattress down onto the floor.

Of the dozens of questions that were running through Daniel's mind about the room, their walk through the streets of Los Angeles, Sarge himself, the one that came out was: "Why do you have two mattresses?" He whispered the question softly.

Sarge waved Daniel over to the second bed. 

"The guy I bought them from agreed to bring them here, but only if I bought them both. I figured, two clean mattresses delivered to my door for thirty bucks was a decent deal," his murmur was a low rumble across the room.

"You took a mattress delivery at an abandoned building?" Daniel asked. 

"Yup. He helpfully backed his pickup right down the alley in the back and we unloaded them by my trick window."

Daniel shook his head.

He looked around.

"Why are we whispering?" he asked.

Sarge chuckled.

"They keep a guard in this building in the afternoons, but they send someone around two or three nights a week. I like having my own security, keeps out the squatters. We're pretty far from the front door here, and the door is locked, so as long as I don't attract attention, nobody's going to notice me."

"How is it that you have a key, but the guard doesn't?" Daniel asked. 

"It's not that hard to install your own lock," Sarge said dismissively.

"Huh," was the only response Daniel could think of. "You put in the trick window, too?"

"Naturally."

Daniel shook his head.

"Nothing makes sense about you," he muttered. He shook his head again. "Not to be rude. I appreciate you looking out for me. Though I have to wonder why Father Mac thought I would be better off with you than in his shelter."

"Mac knows I sleep somewhere that I have a roof over my head. And trust me. Here you're not gonna get lice, or contract TB, and I won't cough all night. Though I might snore. Been a long time since I slept with anyone. And when you leave in the morning, nobody's going to follow you and mug you as soon as you get out of sight of the door. Or beat you up. Of course, if we're really unlucky, you might get arrested for trespassing, and I can't offer you anything to eat. I don't keep food up here. Best way to prevent a rodent problem."

As if he had reminded himself of something, Sarge unzipped the light day pack he had carried from the shelter and tossed Daniel a bottle of water.

"Thanks," Daniel said.

"There's empty bottles over in the corner, if you need to take a piss in the night," Jack pointed to the farthest corner of the room.

"Great," Daniel said, with a little less gratitude.

"It's not the Ritz," Sarge agreed.

They were quiet again. 

"Sorry there's only the one sleeping bag," Sarge said.

"It's not cold," Daniel replied.

Sarge lay down. Daniel noticed he didn't seem to feel the need for a cover, either.

"Why are an armed criminal and his six armed guards scared of you?" Daniel asked.

"You made all six of them? I'm impressed."

Daniel waved him off.

"I've spent lots of time in some pretty dangerous places. I can spot six goons with guns on an otherwise empty street."

Sarge actually laughed at that.

"What dangerous places have you spent time?" he asked.

That's off the subject,' Daniel replied. The only response from Sarge was quiet. Daniel clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Peru. Mexico. Ecuador. North Africa."

"Those can be dangerous places," Sarge said thoughtfully. "What did you do there? You don't strike me as a CIA asset."

"I'm an archaeologist," Daniel replied. 

"How does an archaeologist end up on Skid Row? All your grants run out at once?"

"In short – yes," Daniel said tartly.

"And the long story," Sarge prompted.

"I spoke inconvenient truth to the old guard," Daniel replied. He was surprised to hear the bitterness in his own voice.

"And I bet you weren't subtle about it? So. A hopeless idealist. Suddenly I understand exactly how you go there," Sarge said.

There was a long pause.

"Why should they be afraid of me?" Sarge asked finally, in response to Daniel's earlier question. "I'm just a junkie hustler. A regular customer that their boss fucks a couple of times a month. No need to get jumpy just because I get a little pushy. It's not a secret that Kaz gets off on a little rough foreplay. That's why he pays me in the first place, instead of just doing his whores."

"Hmmm," Daniel said. He knew what he saw. He also knew that he didn't feel at all afraid of Sarge. He wondered if this man was not as detached from his community as he seemed.

"We'll get you back to Father Mac tomorrow morning. Unless by then you've had time to figure out what to do on your own."

"Hmm," he hummed again. He thought about it. Professor ____________ had been kind enough to store all of Daniel's stuff in his attic. But he had burned his bridges at the university. Sarah hated him. None of his colleagues were currently speaking to him.

"Maybe it's time for a fresh start," Sarge suggested. Daniel wondered if the man could read his mind.

"I could do a new study: 'Unusual Causes of Homelessness in the City of Los Angeles.' I already have two case studies in mind. Cause one: hopeless idealism. Cause two:… What is cause two?" Daniel mused. He looked at Sarge's thin, handsome face in the candlelight, and realized he had probably gone too far. "I'm sorry, that was rude."

"What makes you think my current situation has an unusual cause. I'm probably just another wounded warrior, let down by the system."

With Sarge's apparent permission, Daniel pursued the topic.

"Not addicted to drugs or alcohol," Daniel said. "Not mentally ill. Not disabled. Considering your rank and level of education, probably not impoverished before you got here. So what?" He was already speaking low, but he was really more musing to himself that directing the question to Sarge.

"I thought we were going with junkie hustler," Sarge suggested.

"Junkies don't insist on cash for sex," Daniel said dismissively. "And you're a recreational user. Your veins tell the tale. And as an aside, aren't you a little old to be a 'hustler?'"

"Hey, that's low," Sarge objected. "And who do you know I don't use my feet."

"Why would you bother, when your arms are in such good shape? You obviously aren't hiding your drug use from anyone," Daniel countered.

"You've only known me for a f few hours. I could be crazy as fruit bat for all you know," Sarge suggested.

Daniel made a wry face at that, not that Sarge could see him, so far from the candle.

"I don't think so. You're organized. Take this place. You're a homeless man with an apartment, for God's sake. 

"The technical term you're looking for is squatter," Jack interrupted.

"And you're hyper aware of your environment…" Daniel plowed on.

Sarge laughed again and Daniel found himself smiling in response.

"What's funny?" Daniel demanded.

"Nothing," Sarge said. "I spend a lot of time alone. I just forget what it's like, talking to someone who's not crazy or a complete idiot."

"You're welcome, I guess," Daniel said. "But I'm not coming up with any good, unique reasons for you to be here."

"Hmm," Sarge said in his turn. The conversation rested there, but strangely, Daniel felt it was a natural pause – a companionable silence.

"There's a real freedom in this life," Sarge said finally.

"Nothing left to lose," Daniel suggested.

'That," Sarge agreed. "But more. No obligations. Nothing to achieve. No assets to protect. Nothing to worry about or remember. Just find a safe place to sleep and get some food in you every day."

"No time," Daniel said. "No yesterday. No tomorrow. Just now."

"Exactly," Sarge agreed in satisfaction.

"Very zen," Daniel said.

"I guess."

"Sounds boring," Daniel prodded.

"A lot of the time," Sarge admitted.

"Also pointless," Daniel said.

"What _point_ is there to any one person's life?" Sarge responded with a sudden surprising vitriol. "What does it matter what one person does or does not do? Then years after you die nobody cares buy your family. The day they die, no one will remember you at all."

"I don't have a family," Daniel shot back. "And I reject your hypothesis. I study people. The past is not lost and forgotten. Somebody built Stonehenge and Chichen-Itza and Machu Picchu and Banpo…"

"And people filled up their middens for you to dig up and categorize chronologically," Sarge said. "Whole civilizations reduced to their garbage. And millions of people who didn't throw their filth into the right holes might as well never have existed."

"So you withdraw from the entire endeavor of humanity because your personal contribution might be lost in the whole?"

"I've contributed plenty, thanks," Sarge growled.

There was another pause. Less companionable, Daniel thought, until Sarge spoke again.

"Go to sleep, professor," Sarge told him. The anger was gone from his voice. He was laughing again.

So the conversation was closed. Not that his host's life was any of his business anyway. They had been talking about Daniel and he had asked what he thought was a legitimate question about their encounter with Kaz but really, he had probably asked far too many questions. As Sarge had pointed out, Daniel had only met him a few hours ago. It wasn't Daniel's place to analyze and judge a stranger.

He got up from his bed and went over to the corner to avail himself of one of the bottles. When he was done, he capped it and left it there. He went back to his shoulder bag and fished out his tooth brush. He washed down the tiny bit of toothpaste he used with a drink from the bottle Sarge had given him. He took his folded up jeans out of the bag and fluffed them up for a pillow, then settled down to sleep on the bare mattress.

"What truth did you need to tell them?" Sarge asked.

"I think there's good evidence pointing to the pyramids at Giza _not_ having been built by the Pharos of the Fourth Dynasty," Daniel replied, a little surprised at Sarge's question. "There was _one_ discovery of _any_ inscriptions. Colonel Vyse was a total fraud… Which of course raises the question of who built them," Daniel said.

"I thought it was pretty much settled that they were built using ramps and rollers by peasants with nothing better to do in the off season," Sarge replied.

Daniel turned his head to blink across at him.

"Um. Well, yes, that is the current theory of how they were built, but what if the Great Pyramids are so old that there wasn't sufficient human population to provide the muscle power?"

"How much older?" Sarge asked.

"I don't know. That's what I want people to more seriously investigate, rather than accept at face value. The total lack of inscriptions in these huge monuments is just so critical."

"Except that Vyse guy's discovery…" Sarge commented. Daniel made a dismissive gesture.

"There were fully developed writing systems in the first two dynasties," Daniel said. "They seem to have been based on even earlier systems. There could have been human writing in Egypt for hundreds or even of thousands of years prior to what we currently acknowledge as the earliest inscriptions."

Sarge made a thoughtful sound.

"Well, I can see how it was a hard sell," Sarge said. "It's more the seeds of an idea than an actual, supported hypothesis."

Daniel sighed. Sarge was right. Except Daniel _knew_ he was on to a new breakthrough. He just needed funding.

"Good night, Sarge," Daniel said.

"I thought you promoted me," Sarge grumbled.

Daniel finally felt sleepy. He yawned.

"I just want to call you what you want to be called," Daniel said. "It's only polite."

After a long pause, Sarge said, "You can call me Jack. Though if you do, people will think you fucked me. Only johns call me anything besides Sarge."

"Okay, Jack," Daniel said. He felt inexplicably pleased to have a name to call his new friend.

* * *

"Good to see you again, Mr. Jackson," Father Mac said. "Let's go back to my office."

They walked down a short hall from the dining room to Father MacDermott's office. Instead of sitting behind the small writing desk, he took a seat in the arm chair, motioning Daniel to the couch.

"So, Daniel Jackson. How does a man with two suitcases full of books end up the ward of the honestly disreputable Sarge?"

Daniel smiled weakly.

"Sarge blames hopeless idealism," he said. The priest chuckled.

"What kind of idealism? Those aren't 50 pounds worth of Karl Marx and Chairman Mao, are they?"

Daniel shook his head. 

"Academic idealism, not political idealism. I'm an archaeologist. I have…" he began, then reconsidered. "I am… interested in some very cutting edge theories. I advocated for them a little too vigorously and ended up missing out on several grants and an associate professorship."

The priest stared at him, then shook his head.

"That has to be the strangest story I have ever heard in this office."

Daniel laughed at that. It was funny, how light he felt after saying it. Maybe Jack was right about some things.

"I was just saying to Ja – Sarge – last night, it seems like the basis for my third PhD thesis. Maybe: 'Underlying links between seemingly unique stories of homelessness.' Or something. I need to massage it into some kind of workable hypothesis. But I already have two promising case studies in mind."

The priest smiled in response.

"Third thesis? That implies there is a second degree?"

"Oh. Yes, I have a degree in linguistics. It was a gimmie. I'm a bit of a savant with languages. I'm up to twenty-three, though I don't have much use for the dead languages, which is about half of them. One doesn't get much use out of a knack for Cuneiform. Except maybe around here. Need anybody to do some light translation from the Ancient Greek?" he asked.

"Twenty-three?" Father MacDermott repeated. "So, you speak what modern languages, exactly?"

Daniel opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again.

"I am such an idiot. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Exactly," Father MacDermott replied with a smile. "So?"

"Um. Egyptian Arabic, Hebrew, Farsi, Greek, Spanish, German, French, Russian, Dutch, Mandarin, and, uh, Welsh."

"Really?" the priest said. He seemed a bit stunned. Daniel gave him a hesitant smile.

"Some are better than others," he said apologetically.

"No, no. I think we both know we've solved your problem. In fact, I even know exactly who would be able to keep you busy twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Let me make a call."

* * *

"You do realize I usually try to stay pretty far from the police?" Jack said.

"I didn't need you to walk with me. I can follow basic directions, you know," Daniel said. He wasn't really nervous, but he was strangely grateful that Jack had wanted to escort him to his meeting. 

"Not a problem," Jack said. "There are some lovely benches around here. I'll just grab a Times, have a nice sit in the sun."

Daniel nodded absently. He took a deep breath and marched in to the Central Community Police Station.

* * *

He sat in the uncomfortable guest chair in the small, functional office. Sergeant Clark seemed to be nearly buried under stacks of files. She smiled at him across her cluttered desk.

"Father Mac called this morning and said I had to meet you. He says you are going to solve all my communication problems."

Daniel smiled back nervously.

"I don't know about that," he said.

"He said you could translate for us," she prompted. "He seemed to think you could handle a lot of languages."

Daniel took a deep breath and decided if he was going to do this, he would do it right.

"I can offer simultaneous translation in Arabic, German, and Dutch, and close to it in French, Greek, Farsi and Russian. Plus, I have conversational Spanish, Mandarin, and Welsh." 

His confidence faded as he went down the list, wilting under the skeptical gaze of the police sergeant.

"You're kidding, right?" she asked him.

"No," Daniel replied.

"I won't deny that I could really use you around, if that's true," she said. "We have translators for a lot of languages on call, but having a guy in the building who could cover French, Farsi and Russian without ever needing to make a call would be really handy. I could certainly get you work on a contract basis, and there are even a few civilian staff positions I might be able to slot you into. However, I'm not going to be able to do that on just Father Mac's recommendation. I'll make a few calls to the courthouse. They've got a certification program for court translators."

She stopped and thought.

"I don't want them poaching you. I have a better idea."

* * *

"So she liked you, huh?" Jack said.

"She seems to think witnesses and suspects alike will find me non-threatening and easy to talk to."

Jack chuckled.

"Well, I could have told her that. So when do you start?"

"She wants proof that I actually can provide the services I say. She's sending me to an agency to be interviewed and tested. She says if they sign off on me, she'll make me a salaried employee. And she made some not-so-veiled threats about what she would tell Father Mac if I took a job with the translation agency instead of her."

Jack smiled at him. He found himself grinning back like a loon.

"So fresh start?" Jack asked him.

"Fresh start," Daniel agreed. "I haven't felt this excited about a new project in months."

Jack nodded. 

"Good. Because we have KP tonight. Wait til you see how Sister Mary Magdalene cracks the whip in that kitchen."

* * *

They stood in line. Daniel was hungry. This was his first meal of the day. He wondered if Jack had eaten while Daniel as preoccupied with his various meetings. Somehow, looking at his new friend's prominent cheekbones across the table, he doubted it. Jack had been enthusiastic and even excited for Daniel all day, but as they arrived back at Our Mother of Mercy, he became pensive and uncommunicative. Daniel hadn't seen any obvious reason why. But he respected Jack's silence. His plate was clean all too soon. He would have to be more careful to eat other meals, if his dinner was going to be restricted in the evenings. He was used to getting lost in his work and fasting all day, but in his former life, he could binge like a maniac when he remembered to eat. He currently didn't have that option.

When he was finished, gestured toward the hall leading to Father Mac's office, where Daniel had left his bags in the priest's keeping before setting out that morning. 

"You probably should change, if you need to wear those clothes again tomorrow," Jack suggested. You can throw your shirt in a washer in the basement while we do the dishes."

Father Mac wasn't in his office, so Daniel shut the door and did a quick change.

"Washers?" he asked a man he met in the hallway, holding up his shirt. 

"Down that way," the man told him. Belatedly, Daniel wondered if he needed change, but the washers were not coin operated, and there was detergent in large buckets. Daniel found an empty machine and put in his shirt, and his dirty socks and underwear.

He found Jack in the dish room. He'd grabbed an apron on the way. Jack hardly looked up as Daniel came in, so Daniel settled in beside him. Jack was rinsing the plates in the sink. Daniel picked took them and stacked them into the trays and lined them up for the dishwasher. The current wash buzzed. Daniel reached in and pulled the steaming, wet tray from the other side, and pushed the next batch along the rollers, through the curtain. He flicked the button to start another cycle and left the hot, wet dishes to air dry.

It wasn't the first time Daniel had worked in the dish room, and it seemed it wouldn't be the last.

* * *

As Daniel sat watching his laundry tumble in the drier, Father MacDermott sat down beside him in one of the hard chairs. Jack was upstairs, helping with the mopping, but Sister Mary Magdalene, a kind, middle-aged woman with a Midwestern accent, had sent Daniel away, saying he had done plenty for his first night. 

"Favoritism," Jack grumbled. The nun slapped him on the shoulder. 

"You get extra rosaries for those needle marks," she scolded fondly. So Daniel was at a loose end until Jack did his penitence.

"How did it go today? Did you find Sergeant Clark?" Father MacDermott asked.

Daniel nodded. 

"Thank you for your help with that," he said sincerely. "She wants me to get certified, but she said as long as I do, she'll hire me immediately."

The priest beamed.

"Very good," he said.

He didn't seem inclined to leave. They were completely alone in the laundry room. It was quiet, aside from the hum of Daniel's drier. Almost as if reading Daniel's thoughts, the priest said, "I sometimes hide down here. Don't tell anyone."

"Your secret is safe with me," Daniel promised.

"I'm pleased Sarge seems to have taken you under his wing. He doesn't have many friends here. Even in this place, full of the people our society has thrown away, he's alone."

"I don't understand what he's doing here," Daniel said. 

"Maybe you can find that out. He has never confided in me. I'm very concerned about him, though. He's an alcoholic. He was withdrawing when he arrived here. I've never smelled alcohol on him anytime that I've known him, but with the history of addiction, I'm concerned his drug use could get out of his control. He goes through black depressions, too, where I am fairly sure he doesn't eat at all. He will be gone from here for a week, and when he comes back, it will be obvious he didn't have any other nutrition source while he was gone."

Daniel shook his head.

"That doesn't make any sense, either. I know he has income," Daniel said.

The priest nodded. 

"Yet another thing that worries me. If he doesn't have AIDS yet, it is only a matter of time. Not to mention all the other, more mundane STDs."

"But if he's not spending that money on drugs or food or housing, what is he doing with it?" Daniel asked.

"I strongly suspect him of being one of our anonymous donors, but there's no way to be sure," Father MacDermott replied.

They sat, watching Daniel's laundry flip in hypnotic circles.

"Help him, Daniel," the priest said. "He needs a protector, someone he trusts. Someone who can draw him out of his darkness and back into the light."

Daniel turned to the priest.

"I just met him last night," Daniel protested. "I don't even know him."

"Doesn't matter," the priest replied. "He has chosen you, and if you don't hold out the hand of hope, then I don't know if he will survive until someone else can offer it to him."

The priest patted Daniel on the knee.

"Also, someday I want him to tell me the secret of his hidey hole.


End file.
